Finally, she was satisfied, and none too soon. Robin was almost to the stable doors. She had one chance to stop him.

Offering up a quick prayer, she stepped forward, cocked her arm, and let fly.

The snowball sailed true. Barely an arc altered its swift trajectory as it hurtled unerringly toward her proposed target in the middle of Robin’s back. Except . . . except it slammed into the back of Robin’s head instead and, with an audible thud, burst apart.

For an eerie second, Robin seemed to freeze in mid-stride. Then, slowly, as though time was unfolding in molasses, the satchel slipped from his shoulder, his knees buckled, and he fell face-first into the snow, disappearing from Cecily’s sight.

Her legs were moving before he hit the ground. She bowled into the deep drifts of snow, arms cartwheeling, certain that she had just killed the only man she would ever love.







Chapter 24

Cecily lurched across the snow-choked yard, finally managing to reach Robin. He lay motionless, facedown in the snow, one arm outstretched, the other crooked beneath his cheek. His sooty eyelashes lay thick against his cheeks. Not a breath stirred the snow near his lips.

She cried out as she struggled the last few feet to his side and was about to drop to her knees when a hand shot out, grabbed her leg, and jerked her off her feet. She landed on her stomach with a whoosh, something beneath the snow catching her full in the diaphragm, leaving her windless and dazed.

“Ha! You young limb of Satan! “ Robin shouted triumphantly, dragging her toward him by the ankle. “A few smacks to your arse will remind you of the penalties for such jokes. For God’s sake stop thrashing about and take your medicine like a man!”

She managed a high, strangled sound of protest. The soft hat she’d pulled down over her hair had shifted, covering her face so that she couldn’t see him. Nor could he see her face.

“Fine then, you bloody bairn,” Robin said, sounding disgusted. “I’ll not lay a hand to you. This time.”

He transferred his grip from her ankle to the belt around her waist. She felt him shift and realized in horror that he’d moved to sit astride her thighs. Still unable to choke out any coherent words, she thrashed with renewed vigor. With one swift movement, he grabbed her wrists, flipping her to her back and pinning her hands on either side of her head.

“Now, let’s see your face, lad.”

Locking her wrists together above her head with one hand, he flicked the hat from her head. Her hair caught in the knit of the cap and came unbound, falling free and pooling around her head.

He stared down at her, dumbfounded. “Mother of God. What are you doing here?”

“I had to stop you!“ she snapped. “You were leaving. You were—you were leaving.”

“Well, yes,” he agreed, his gaze roving her face. He seemed to have forgotten that he held her prisoner, his hands still holding her wrists pressed into the snow, his thighs locked around her hips.

“Why?” she shouted.

“It seems the most advisable course of action. Your father will hardly like seeing me here. This way he won’t.”

For some reason, the sensibleness of his reply infuriated her. She bucked, trying to unseat him, and in doing so shoved her loins straight into his. At once she felt the evidence of his masculinity. Very stiff and obvious evidence.

He drew his breath in sharply through his teeth. She barely heard. The brief contact had incited a maelstrom of sensations at the juncture of her thighs, an ache between her legs that was a potent pleasure, a tickle that was a throb . . .

Swearing beneath his breath, Robin swung his leg from over her, rising in one fluid motion to his feet, as he snagged her upper arm and hauled her effortlessly upright.

For the first time, he seemed to realize what she was wearing. His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. “Where did you come by that clothing?” he demanded.

“Catriona Burns found them.”

“And she gave them to you? To wear?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” she said defiantly. “They are a sight more comfortable and two sights warmer than what I was wearing. And they cover me modestly!”

“That they do not,” he ground out. “You are wearing boy’s clothing. The jacket is too tight over your . . .” His gaze dropped to her breasts and he seemed to forget whatever he’d been about to say, ending with: “That clothing is too tight.”

“Exactly,” she retorted. “Being compressed into a masculine outline cannot be called provocative.”

“I assure you, there is nothing masculine about your shape,” he said grimly. “Those pantaloons fit your legs like a second skin from calf to knee to . . .” This time his dark gaze brushed where the material stretched across her groin, the look as effective as a touch in bringing the molten lick of desire rushing back. He turned his head, directing his gaze at the stable wall.

“What is wrong with that woman?” he muttered angrily.

“What woman?” Cecily asked, hands on her hips.

“Catriona Burns. I thought she had more sense. Is she trying to ruin you?”

“Ruin me?” Cecily echoed disbelievingly.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze returning to her face. “You can’t appear in public in that  . . . those . . .” He waved his hand in the general direction of her clothing.

“This is hardly public, and yes, I can and shall,” she assured him, her ire rising at his tone.

She had always done the acceptable thing, made the conventional reply, allowed herself to be guided by society’s expectations and rules. But lurking in her heart all these years must have been a hoyden simply waiting for the right man to lure her out: a man who did not obey all of society’s dictates, who recognized a person’s value before being told her assets, who was quicker to laugh than to judge.

Robin was that man—even if he was currently doing a fair imitation of his cousin, Oakley. Or at least, Oakley as he’d been before he met Fiona.

“No,” he said fiercely. “You shall not.”

And with that he picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, and began making his way back toward the castle.

It was insupportable! Oakley cradled Fiona against his chest as if she were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, while Robin treated her like a sack of flour.

“This is hardly proper behavior, if that was what you were aiming for,” she shouted, her long hair swishing like a pendulum across his broad back.

“I leave the aiming to you, Cecily,” he replied. “You give me no choice.”

“You still have no choice, unless you plan to strip me and redress me yourself!”

She probably shouldn’t have said that. She felt the big shoulders beneath her grow taut, and the muscular arm around her thighs squeezed a little tighter.

“God help me,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You mustn’t go,” she said, trying to wiggle free of his grasp.

His arm tightened again. “What?”

“You can’t leave Finovair. You can’t just run away!” she shouted, her exasperation clear in her voice.

“I am not running away. I have already explained—”

“If you leave, it will appear to everyone that you are fleeing, and if you are fleeing, everyone will assume it is for a reason and then they will make the very worst assumption.” She braced her hands flat against his broad back and lifted herself up and craned her head around, trying to see his face. All she could see was a tightly bunched jaw in profile.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“It would be far better if you stayed and put a good face on the thing, don’t you see?” she said, hoping the desperation she felt didn’t find its way into her voice.

He stopped and made some harsh, strangled sound.

“Don’t you agree?” she prodded.

“Yes!” The admission seemed torn from him. “Yes. I concede your point.”

“So you won’t leave?” she said, managing to break free and slide down his body. She felt every inch of that journey . . . her breasts pressed against his shoulders, then against his chest: all the hardness of him and the softness of her.

“Not at once,” he choked, trying to pretend that he didn’t notice the same thing.

“Not at all,” Cecily stated, with a thrill of elation.

“I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.”

But the heat in his eyes belied his promise.







Chapter 25

That afternoon

Robin strode into the library and stopped short. Cecily stood in front of the hearth, silhouetted against the merrily burning fire. She still wore those damned boy’s breeches, but had shed the jacket to reveal the fine, loose shirt beneath. Backlit by the glow from the fireplace, one could easily see every curve through the thin material.

And she had curves.

The effect was breathtaking. Her slight rib cage narrowed into her small waist before flaring gently out again in sweetly rounded hips. And when she bent to poke at the fire, he could see the way her breasts jostled ripely and the delicious manner in which the trousers’ material stretched over her shapely derrière.

Future duchess or not, Catriona Burns ought to be put in the dock for encouraging Cecily’s crime against a man’s self-restraint.

“Hamish said you wanted to see me,” he announced with ill grace. “Here I am.”

She turned around, her eyes lighting up on seeing him. Why was she so happy? Because, he realized, she liked him. She not only liked his kisses . . . she liked him. Something hard and painful knotted in his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, coming round the lumpy old sofa toward him. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. I do hope you understand that I didn’t purposely aim for your head.”

“Of course not. You needn’t trouble your conscience. Byron has always claimed I have the hardest head in England. I’m fine.”

She had a beautiful smile, gamine and spontaneous, and soon he would not be a witness to it. The claims that she was a cipher, a statue, and other, unkinder comments had all been proven false. She was nothing like her reputation, and there was little time left to revel in the company of the unexpected woman she’d proved to be.

One of Taran’s men had returned at noon with the news that the snow was melting quickly and the passes would likely be cleared by the morrow. Maycott’s men were undoubtedly already working on it. Her father would arrive and Robin would play the role she’d assigned him.

He would contrive to look exasperated and indifferent. He might try to keep Maycott from stringing up Taran—though at this moment he was not sure whether he wished to succeed—and then he would take his leave. Perhaps he might catch a glimpse of her someday in London, on the arm of whomever she married.

She stopped in front of him, her smile vanishing. “You are still angry. No, don’t deny it. I can see it in your face.”

Wrong, my girl. That’s anguish, not anger.

“I expect I deserve no less,” she said sadly.

“I’m not angry. I promise you. I am simply”—he cast about for some excuse for his dark expression—“distraught that you did not heed my advice and change into other clothing.”

“You say this because you have a care for my reputation?” she asked. And then, with a heartbreakingly hopeful smile, “Or a care for me?”